


Hopeless

by eleanor_lavish



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, MCR - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Misunderstanding, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-02
Updated: 2007-09-02
Packaged: 2017-10-19 22:39:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eleanor_lavish/pseuds/eleanor_lavish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The problem stems, Patrick thinks, from the fact the Warped Tour is made up half of gossips and half of drama queens, and the whole thing is basically a summer of playing a really intense game of Telephone.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hopeless

The first time they met… okay. Not technically the first time, since they sort of met at some Fuse thing a few months before, but. The first time they met that summer, for real, Patrick kind of knew from the start that he was fucked. Bob Bryar had a degree in sound engineering, drummed like a madman, and had some seriously gorgeous eyes. When they met up at the end of the day barbeque Patrick’s first night on Warped ’05, Bob handed him a bottle of Sam Adams and let Patrick babble at him for fifteen minutes about kick drums and smiled a little when Patrick waved his arm wide enough that he almost smacked Beckett in the arm with his beer as he walked past.

“Watch it,” Bill yelled and Patrick flushed.

“I don’t drink much,” he mumbled and Bob smiled.

“Me either,” he said and took a long swig of his own beer. “What’s your take on Tama?” he asked and Patrick has _opinions_ on Tama drums, okay? It’s not like he couldn’t not _share_ them, and it was another half an hour before they heard a bang and both turned to see the crew pulling down the Main Stage, ready to get the tour on the road for another night. Bob slipped his hand over Patrick’s shoulder and raised his beer in salute as the posts came down.

Patrick wasn’t really paying attention to anything but Bob’s hand on his shoulder and he heard a small click behind him. Bob turned fast, annoyed, but it was just Tom, grinning at them and nodding, already walking away with his camera back up, pointed at Bill and Mike and Joe a few yards away.

“Same time tomorrow?” Bob said, and Patrick blinked up at him.

“Yeah, absolutely,” he grinned back, and he was totally fucked.

**

  
“Open the motherfucking door, Bryar,” Pete yells through the double glazed panes of glass on the bus. Bob stuffs his head under a pillow, but he can still hear it. That kid has some serious pipes. “If you don’t open the door right now, I will spray paint some seriously offensive shit on this bus, dude!”

Bob curses and rolls off the couch. Pete isn’t known for idle threats. He shuffles slowly to the front, dread resettling in the pit of his stomach. He’s guessed this was coming for three days now. Actually, he’s really surprised it didn’t happen sooner.

Maybe Patrick isn’t really one to kiss and tell.

Bob takes a deep breath before opening the door. He already knows what he has to say, but Pete pushes past him up the steps, talking animatedly.

“What the _fuck_ , dude? I mean, what the hell do you think you’re doing—”?

“ _Nothing_ , okay?” Bob grits out through clenched teeth. He rifles through his pockets for his cigarettes and finally steals one from Frank’s pack on the floor. “I’m staying away from him.” He has been too. For three days, Bob has left the bus just long enough for soundcheck and performances, snagging junk food on the way back, subsisting on bottled water and beer. Lots and lots of beer.

“Yeah,” Pete crosses his arms in front of him and pops one hip out. It would be a menacing look on anyone ten inches taller. “I got that. Thanks for making me look like a douche.”

Bob pauses with the cigarette still unlit, hanging from his lips. “Excuse me?”

“Patrick’s all ‘Hey, so, maybe I like Bob’ and I’m all ‘Dude, he’s totally into you’, cause you are. You watch him like a fucking hawk and you listen to his insane speeches about Prince and trust me, most people don’t,” Pete starts moving, arms punctuating his words as he speeds through them, “and he’s, like, ‘No, seriously? ‘cause I don’t think so’ and I’m all ‘Trick, trust me, make a fucking move’, which, okay. Getting Patrick to make a move is like getting fucking penguins to _fly_ , dude, and you’ve now set me back, like, a year in the ‘Get Patrick To Realize He’s Awesome’ plan, thank you,” Pete bites out, glaring at him. “And so he clearly makes some sort of move, which he won’t tell me about, and you clearly have your head up your ass and say _no_ and now he’s all fucking _morose_ and I’m the bad guy, and you have to fucking _fix_ it.”

Pete is pointing at him, wagging his finger like a disapproving aunt. Bob takes the cigarette from his mouth and stares at him.

“Are you saying you _want_ me to hook up with Patrick?” It’s pretty clear that that is _exactly_ what Pete is saying, but Bob wants to make sure. It was a pretty long speech and it was… not what he was expecting.

Pete’s eyes roll so far into the back of his head, he has to tip his neck back to follow them. “Yes, please hook up with my best friend. And while you’re at it, apologize for being a freak about it the first time.”

“I’m not. I wasn’t a freak about it.”

“Right, ‘cause when a guy you like tries to jump you, saying no is—“

“We’re not all horny fucking dogs, Wentz,” Bob spits out. “Get out of my bus.”

“Talk to him,” Pete glares.

“Off. My. Bus,” Bob growls and Pete throws his hands in the air like he’s dealing with an idiot.

“He _likes_ you!” Pete yells as Bob shoves him down the stairs and pulls the door shut.

“Not enough,” Bob mutters and flops back down on the couch. A second later he regrets not getting a beer while he was standing, and sighs.

**

It was a stupid idea, and like most stupid ideas, it had been Pete’s. Patrick flushes with embarrassment just thinking about it. At least it was only a kiss. If Patrick had gone with Pete’s original “just climb in his bunk and stick your hand down his pants” plan, Patrick would still be in hiding.

It hadn’t even seemed like that bad a plan, really. Bob is awesome, Bob is sexy, Bob can talk about music for hours, Bob is… god, and Patrick has way too many thoughts that start with ‘Bob is’. Only one of them should stand out; Bob is clearly not interested in Patrick.

**

“Hey,” Patrick had grinned and Bob had stopped to lean on the bus next to him. It was way past dark and the party was still raging. They only had a five-hour drive to the next tour date, so it was bound to go on for a while. Patrick was dressed in his usual jeans and t-shirt combo, and his trucker cap was shilling for John Deere. Bob had tried to focus on the clothes and not the way Patrick’s grin widened when he saw him, or the way his hair curled behind his ears.

“Not up for it tonight?” he’d asked and Patrick just shook his head. He was flushed slightly and Bob knew that meant he’d had a few beers. He knew that if he mentioned Morris Day at all he was in for a thirty-minute treatise on soul. He knew that Patrick would laugh at any stupid joke Bob told him right now. He knew way too fucking much, actually.

Joe and Dirty had streaked by, yelling something about supersoakers. Bob had snorted and took a drag off his cigarette. Patrick had just stared at his feet until they were out of earshot, his head ducked down like his hat could hide him from Dirty, from Joe, from anything. Bob had grinned.

“Maybe I should try that.”

“Hmm?” Patrick had glanced up, eyes flitting to Bob’s mouth. Bob had knocked his tongue against his lip ring without thinking and Patrick blinked.

“The hat thing. Maybe I should—“

“Hey,” Patrick had said and suddenly Bob was totally off balance as Patrick leaned up on his toes and brushed his lips against Bob’s hesitantly. And it wasn’t like Bob hadn’t thought about it. He had. He really had, he thought, opening his mouth a fraction as Patrick’s tongue slipped against his lower lip. It was cool out, but Patrick was warm, pressed against him, and Bob reached out for his hip, fingers itching to pull him closer but a little wary of pulling too hard, wanting it too much.

They had been hidden in the shadows, thankfully, as Mikey and Pete stumbled by—not drunk but way too far in each other’s personal space. They’d both frozen, going as quiet as they could, and they heard Pete’s soft “The fucking night is ours, Mikey Way” and Mikey’s “Let’s go get lost in the dark”, like something out of a stupid romance novel. Bob couldn’t help it, he really couldn’t—Mikey and Pete were the joke of the tour, adorable but just this side of ridiculous—and he had laughed as soon as they were out of earshot, the sound bouncing off Patrick’s jaw.

“Sorry,” he’d said, still grinning as he tipped his head back. “They’re just. It’s like they’re Romeo and Juliet and not like two stupid rock dudes.” Patrick had been grinning too, but something wasn’t quite right about it.

“No, I know, its kind of hilarious,” he’d said. “Why they can’t just call a hookup a hookup is beyond me.”

“Right,” Bob had agreed. It was pretty clear that Mikey and Pete wouldn’t last past the tour. It was kind of sweet, really, the way they saw it as this Great Romance, but it wasn’t like they had much in common. Not like he and Patrick, he’d thought, pulling Patrick closer, tipping his head to close the distance again.

“I’m good at hookups,” Patrick smiled, and this close Bob could see how hazy his eyes were, wonder how many beers Patrick had had, really.

“Yeah?” Bob had asked, and there was a tightness in his chest that wasn’t there a minute ago.

“Mmhmm,” Patrick had hummed against his jaw. “Fuck all that flowers and romance bullshit,” he’d added, and his hand had snaked around Bob’s waist. “Nothing wrong with a little—“

But he didn’t finish the sentence as Bob pulled away with a shake of his head, putting his cigarette firmly between in his lips and stuffing his shaking hands in his pockets. “Hey, I think. I should go,” he’d managed before turning on his heel and heading back toward his bus.

**

See, the thing is, Bob is actually really good at the flowers and romance bullshit. It’s a pretty well-kept secret, but it’s not that hard to figure out, he thinks, stuffed in his tiny bunk, staring at the top of it like it has some sort of answers.

He’s shit at casual dating. Hookups are okay, when he’s drunk and the other person is a willing stranger. Casual sex with people he knows is a terrible idea; Bob learned that early on. He has two modes when he wakes up next to someone—‘hey I like you’ with snuggling and breakfast included, and ‘where did you put your clothes again? And oh, the door is that way’. When you have to see someone again, work with them, be _friends_ with them, neither one is really a great way to go.

He tried to explain this to Frank once. After two weeks of little presents—notebooks that said “Hopeless Romantic” on the cover in red sparkly letters and a bunk covered in various heart shaped stickers—he’d cornered him with a “Hey, Iero, if you want I can rip your own heart of your chest and show you how fucking romantic I am” and Frank pretty much left it alone. Mostly. Every now and then he just stares at Bob with his head tilted, smiling a little, and Bob says “What?” Frank just shakes his head. “Nothing, man. You’re just. You’re pretty cool.” Bob blushes every time, and Frank laughs. Frank is a little shit.

It’s not that Bob doesn’t get laid much. One-night stands aren’t a problem. It’s that he’s on the road too much to have anything else—he doesn’t understand the kind of casual thing he’s seen guys have with their merch girls, or techs, or girls back home who are cool with the ‘what happens on the road stays on the road’ policy.

The other thing is, and Bob gets that he’s a fucking girl for even thinking it, but. The other thing is, he really _likes_ Patrick. He’s funny, and kind of musically intense, but in a different way from Toro. He’s a talker, but the kind who always has something to say. He’s also self-deprecating almost to a fault—Bob actually approves of Pete’s Get Patrick To Realize He’s Awesome plan—and… he’s cute. He’s fucking _adorable_ , with this gorgeous mouth, and Bob has maybe had a stupid crush on him for weeks now, but. But.

He doesn’t want to _hookup_ with Patrick.

He wants the fucking flowers and romance bullshit.

And now he’s lost a pretty awesome friend on top of the whole thing, and really. He’s just hoping he can stay in his bunk forever and wallow.

**

The problem stems, Patrick thinks, from the fact the Warped Tour is made up half of gossips and half of drama queens, and the whole thing is basically a summer of playing a really intense game of Telephone.

So when Frank Iero shows up on his bus looking kind of annoyed, Patrick thinks he knows what happened there.

“I’m not avoiding him,” he says pre-emptively. “He’s avoiding _me_ , if you want to know, and really? That’s fine, because I don’t need the ‘its not you, its me’ speech.” It comes out a little bitter, but Patrick can’t really care. If Frank wants to report back that Patrick is sulking, fine. He is, kind of.

Frank closes his mouth and tilts his head a little. “Huh,” he says, and Patrick pushes past him to the bunks. He’d started the week listening to a lot of Morrissey with a side of Jeff Buckley, but he thinks maybe its time to switch to girl groups. “So,” Frank says behind him and Patrick really wishes he’d just leave already, “you have a thing for Bob.”

 _Wow, Frank, amazing powers of observation there_ , he thinks, but settles on a look that he hopes is both incredulous and annoyed. Frank chuckles.

“Okay, cool,” he nods. “Mind if I ask what kind of a thing?”

“I. What?” Patrick crosses his arms and tugs on his hat. A thing is a thing, in Patrick’s book. A thing means—

“Like, is it a bored thing? And he’s pretty hot and you thought that would be fun? Or more of a ‘Bob you’re so pretty and awesome and I want to have all of your biologically impossible babies’ sort of thing?” Frank asks, and it sounds oddly sincere. Like Patrick’s answer is actually important here. Which it’s not, because either way, Bob said no. It had looked pretty good for a second there, and then it had all gone to hell.

“Why does it—“

“ _Patrick,_ ” Frank cuts him off, and yeah. Serious-Frank-face is kind of scary.

“Neither,” he mumbles, because there had been no thoughts of biologically impossible babies at _all_ , but. “More the second, I guess,” he concedes and Frank beams.

“Okay! Good!” Frank pushes off the wall and gives Patrick the stealthiest hug he’s ever gotten before bounding off the bus.

Patrick frowns. Knowing the Warped Telephone chain, he’s pretty sure he and Bob are going to be the proud fathers for three Cambodian orphans by tomorrow, but whatever. He finally finds his iPod and settles down to some Gladys Knight. The Pips never broke his heart.

**

As stupid Warped miscommunications go, it ends pretty normally. Bob is on the bus, smoking a Marlboro and trying to figure out how the ‘Bob had a lung cancer scare and Patrick refuses to watch him kill himself’ rumor started when Frank is at his elbow.

“Hi,” Frank says. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Hi,” Bob says back warily.

“Patrick likes you,” Frank grins and Bob chokes a little.

“Excuse me?”

“He likes you. I mean, maybe not adopting babies likes you, but I think he passes your bizarre ‘does he like me, or does he _like me_ like me’ criteria.” Frank is practically vibrating at this point and Bob is a little nauseated.

“Frankie? How do you know this?”

“I asked him,” Frank says, without a hint of remorse. Bob takes a step forward and Frank takes two faster ones back. “I’m guessing he was all ‘hey lets hook up’ and you did your crazy Bob ‘I don’t sleep with people I actually like’ thing, and. Whoa!”

Frank is fast. Bob hates that. He narrows his eyes and looks for a better opening. He’s not sure what he’s going to do with Frank when he catches him, but Frank’s not going to like it. He _asked him_? He’s pretty much mortified to his toes, and he hates that even more. Frank is a _little shit_.

“It was so cute, he totally blushed, man. He likes you, and you like him, _jesus, stop it_ ,” Frank is trying to edge to the door, “and stop being a fucking asshole and go talk to him,” he yelps and sprints down the bus steps and out into the crowd.

Bob leans his head on the doorframe and curses loud enough that the kids passing by jump a little in surprise.

**

He hears Bob before he sees him, a light baritone he’d know in his sleep drifting up from the lounge and so he’s not entirely surprised when there’s a knock on the top of his bunk. It doesn’t stop his heart from speeding up a fraction though.

“Yeah?” he asks and Bob pauses a minute before answering.

“It’s me,” he says, and Patrick can’t stop a half grin. “I just. Can I talk to you?”

“Did you talk to Frank?” Patrick asks and when Bob says “Yeah” he takes a deep breath and tries not to kick something. “Yeah, no. I don’t need any fucking pity, okay?”

“Patrick,” Bob says, and pulls the curtain open anyway. He’s crouching in the hall and it’s mostly dark. Andy must have left to give them some privacy. Patrick doesn’t know whether to be pissed or grateful. Bob’s just looking at him, chewing absently on that stupid fucking sexy lip ring and Patrick really wishes he could sit up right now. Or at least not be doing this in just his boxers and a t-shirt. He feels like he’s at a distinct disadvantage.

“What?” Patrick says after a few long seconds, and he doesn’t mean for it to come out so angry, but it does. Bob glances at his shoes.

“I don’t do casual,” he says, and. Okay. That wasn’t really want Patrick was expecting. “I don’t,” Bob continues when Patrick clearly isn’t going to say anything, “and so I just wanted you to know that, and that it wasn’t. It’s not that I didn’t want. You know.”

“You don’t do casual,” he repeats and Bob chews on his lip again. “And you think—“

“You wanted to hook up and that’s. I wish that was me, but it’s not.” _Bob’s blushing,_ Patrick thinks, and the stupid butterflies that he’d picked up the first time Bob had slung an arm around his shoulder and given him a beer are back with a vengeance.

“And you think that’s all I wanted,” he states, because that’s pretty clear at this point. Bob nods. “What if its not?” he asks, his voice quieter than he’d expected. Bob swallows and taps the frame of the bunk with his fingers. Patrick knows he’s wishing for a cigarette right now, something to do with his hands. Patrick reaches out and takes one. He’s feeling oddly bold. Hell, he thinks. He’s already been shot down once and it didn’t kill him. Bob stills for a second, staring at where Patrick’s thumb is pressing into his wrist. He smiles faintly.

“Then I guess I’m sorry I was an asshole?”

“You weren’t an asshole,” Patrick smiles back. “You were an idiot. There’s a difference.”

Bob laughs, and it’s a little breathless, almost _relieved_ , and Patrick rolls onto his elbow and leans forward. “Wanna try again?” he asks and Bob just nods and leans in to kiss him.

The first time, Patrick will admit, had been less than smooth. Or, okay, it had been smooth by Patrick standards, but a little watery due to the three and a half beers he’d downed in the twenty minutes he spent waiting for the My Chem guys to finish their set and get to the bonfire. The first time was spent less focusing on Bob—how he tasted, what his lips felt like—and more on not freaking the fuck out.

There’s a little freaking out this time too, but Patrick’s going to pay attention. When Bob opens his mouth and tilts his head, Patrick’s going to remember the way he sighs a little and how his fingers tighten around Patrick’s wrist.

It’s a really awesome kiss and Patrick doesn’t move much for fear of fucking it up, but when Bob presses forward a fraction he can actually _hear_ Bob’s knee pop where he’s still crouched down. They both wince a little.

“Ouch,” Patrick grins and Bob shakes his head.

“Too fuckin’ old for this shit,” Bob notes wryly and Patrick just tugs his arm.

“Come on,” he says, and he can feel Bob hesitate, just for a second. “Come on,” he says more gently, and reaches to tug on Bob’s shirt this time. Bob crawls into the bunk, toeing his shoes off into the hallway. They both settle on their sides, face to face, and there’s barely room to breathe. “Hi,” he says stupidly, and Bob smiles at him, palms his hip, and Patrick can feel where his thumb is rubbing in small, slow circles against his side.

**

“Hi,” Bob replies. This isn’t really where he thought this would go. He thought Frank might be wrong, was probably wrong, but he owed it to Patrick anyway, to tell him that this was a crazy Bob issue and not that he didn’t _want_ it. But he missed a memo somewhere because Patrick is looking at him like its Christmas and Bob can’t not lean in to kiss him again. Patrick curls his fingers in the hem of Bob’s shirt, lets his knuckles graze bare skin, and Bob’s breath hitches.

Patrick pauses and Bob can feel his mouth curve up into a smile before his hand snakes further under Bob’s shirt, palm flat against his ribcage. He’s warm—Patrick is always warm—and Bob leans into the touch, kissing down Patrick’s jaw as Patrick’s hand slips around his back, pulling him closer.

Their legs tangle together as they deepen the kiss and it isn’t long before Patrick arches up under him and Bob can feel how hard he is. They both groan and Bob thinks, yeah. I’m an incredible idiot. “C’mere,” Patrick breathes and he’s amazed they can actually get closer, Patrick tugging until Bob is half on top of him. Bob almost embarrassed when he can’t stop himself from grinding down on Patrick’s thigh—it’s not like its been _forever_ , but it feels like it, and this is _Patrick_ , his gorgeous mouth panting in Bob’s ear—but Patrick exhales sharply with a “fuck, Bob”.

Bob’s not a big talker on a good day, but Patrick is, and he’s amazed at how those two words send a fissure of heat down his spine. Bob noses at Patrick’s jaw and Patrick rocks against him as he sucks lightly on his neck. He wants Patrick to _talk_ , damn it, but he’s not quite sure how to ask without sounding kind of pervy. Patrick’s fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of Bob’s neck, and when Bob runs his fingers along the waistband of Patrick’s boxers, its like he’s flipped a switch.

“Shit, o-oh, fuck,” Patrick’s hips jerk and Bob groans against his throat. “Bob, I want, oh god, please,” he pants, and it trails off into a whimper as Bob’s fingers dip lower. Patrick’s tugging hard enough on his hair to make Bob’s eyes sting a little, but its so fucking hot, so good, and every time Patrick wriggles and jerks under him, the friction against Bob’s groin is amazing. Bob’s palm brushes the head of Patrick’s cock and Patrick shouts, his whole body constricting as Bob wraps calloused fingers around him and starts to jerk him off. He doesn’t usually work this fast, from ‘hi, I like you’ to sticking his hand down a guy’s pants, but every one of his actions has this awesome reaction from Patrick and Bob is pretty sure he could come just from the noises Patrick’s making.

“Nnngh, Bob, please,” Patrick whimpers and tugs Bob’s head up, hard. Suddenly they’re kissing again, sloppy and wet and Bob’s swallowing all of Patrick’s curses and low groans as his hand speeds up. “Fuck, fuck, so close,” Patrick whispers against his jaw and Bob is too, his hips jerking against Patrick unevenly. It’s only a few more strokes before Patrick is keening under him, Bob’s hand hot and slick from his come, Patrick’s fingers digging into his shoulder like a vice. He’s going to come in his fucking pants, he is, and he doesn’t even care as long as Patrick keeps talking to him, babbling about Bob’s hands, Bob’s mouth, “wanna see you come, wanna make you come, fuck, Bob, gonna suck you off,” and Bob’s whole body shudders as he loses control entirely, until he can’t hear Patrick anymore over the rush of blood in his ears.

Bob feels heavy, his brain fuzzy and his whole body warm. He can feel Patrick’s fingers cording through his hair and sighs into Patrick’s shoulder. Patrick chuckles. Bob would blush, but he’s pretty sure he’s already an unnatural shade of red. “Hey,” Patrick says softly, and Bob would look up, but his head is fucking _heavy_.

“Hmm?” he manages and Patrick brushes his lips against Bob’s temple.

“You okay?” Patrick asks and Bob chuffs out a laugh. He’s okay, even if he can’t feel his fingers.

“Think so,” he replies. “You?”

“I’m pretty fucking fantastic, actually,” Patrick grins. “Your walk back to the bus is gonna suck, though.” Bob looks down at himself and groans and Patrick laughs again, more amused than mocking.

“Your fault,” Bob grouses, and Patrick sighs and snuggles closer.

“’m sorry,” he says, but he’s still laughing and Bob’s pretty sure he doesn’t mean it. “Next laundry stop, one load’s on me.”

“Fucking better be,” Bob says, but he’s distracted by Patrick’s mouth and they kiss for a few long minutes before there’s a thump from the front of the bus and Andy’s voice floats back.

“Pete’s on his way with Mikey—two minute warning!” Patrick groans and Bob just kisses him again.

“Fuck ‘em,” he murmurs and Patrick grins.

**

**

“Hey babe, where’s the-- ow, fuck!” Bob’s voice echoes in the apartment and Patrick ducks further behind his laptop. “Patrick,” he says with more than a hint of annoyance from the doorway. When Patrick looks up, Bob is still damp from the shower, holding a shoe in one hand and his towel around his waist in the other. “Seriously, the bathroom? Can’t you just leave them in the front hall like a normal fucking human being?”

“I’m not a normal fucking human being,” Patrick says with half a grin, only because he knows he can get away with it. They’ve already been living in together for four weeks, and he’s pretty sure if Bob were going to kill him for being a slob, he’d have done it by now.

Bob just snorts. “Yeah, that is abundantly clear. Man, if I had known what a fucking mess you were—“

“Whatever, you knew,” Patrick cuts in, smiling wide now.

“I thought it was a _bus_ thing,” Bob says for the umpteenth time, and Patrick laughs.

“Come on, living with me can’t be _that_ bad,” he says and closes the computer with a click. He tips his head a little in a ‘get over here’ motion and Bob rolls his eyes but he walks across the room anyway, sitting on the bed and letting Patrick crawl into his lap. Patrick’s still getting used to skinny Bob, all hard planes and broad shoulders; he felt big and clumsy when he first moved in, but Bob was still Bob, and hefted him bodily out of his chair to fuck him on the kitchen table the first night, so. Patrick’s learning to accept and appreciate.

“Got you something,” Bob says when they finally pull apart, Bob’s hair dampening the comforter.

“Wha- why?” Patrick asks. He’s still a little distracted by Bob’s hand in the back pocket of his jeans.

“An anniversary thing,” Bob smiles and Patrick’s heart stops for just a second.

“You’re a few weeks early, Bryar,” he notes, and frantically hopes he didn’t get the date wrong. On Warped, its hard to tell one day from another, and.

“Not the real one, just,” Bob rolls over a little and rifles under the bed with one hand, coming back with small picture in a frame. “One year to the day,” he smiles and Patrick blinks at the picture. It’s the two of them in black and white, Bob’s arm around his shoulders, watching the crew tear down the Main Stage. Patrick’s leaning into Bob’s side and Bob’s fingers are curled around Patrick’s shoulder.

“You’re—“

“A hopeless romantic, I know,” Bob says, and he’s blushing a little when Patrick looks up.

“Fucking amazing,” he finishes and leans over to kiss him.

  



End file.
